Chapter 12 #2
A huge part of me doesn’t want to look. Not here, with August watching.
It feels too exposed, vulnerable. I don’t know why I’m freaking out.
If we’re going to do this, I need a ring—people will wonder if I don’t have one.
Only I expected . . . I don’t know, maybe he’d give me a “faking it” welcome packet and the ring would be in there, along with detailed instructions and a schedule of upcoming events.
The silence between us stretches. Taking a breath, I flick a glance down. And my heart trips.
Nestled in a bed of black velvet is a platinum ring with an intensely saturated and velvety royal-blue sapphire the size of my thumbnail as the center stone. Narrow, emerald cut diamonds flank it like mirrored shutters on a tranquil window.
The deco design holds the patina of age, and I know it’s an antique rather than new. My head jerks up, and I frown at him.
He shifts in his seat, his brow knitting. “No good?”
“No . . . I mean, yes . . .” I huff a bemused laugh. “It’s beautiful. Exquisite, really. But August, this is . . .” I shake my head to clear it. “Where did you get it?”
A flush darkens his skin. He shrugs a shoulder and busies himself with pouring out more coffee from the table carafe. “You need an engagement ring. I liked that one.” His gaze collides with mine for a moment. “I thought it suited you.”
Oh, he did, did he?
“If I had to pick one myself, I’d choose this ring.”
His shoulders loosen. “Well, good. That’s good.”
I guess that’s all I’m going to get out of him about his choice of ring. This perfect fucking ring that makes me want to cry. Makes me want to crawl over this food-laden table and kiss the hell out of his lush mouth.
My hand fists around the still-open box. “Isn’t it risky to give this to me in public?”
“No one’s looking,” he says diffidently. “People are more into their breakfasts than people watching.”
“Still . . .” I look around. He’s right. No one has noticed us at all.
“Besides,” he mutters, spearing some hash browns. “Seemed safer.”
“Safer?”
At that, he pauses, freezing as though he’s going over what he just said and regrets it. He eyes me carefully. “Ah, well, if you’re going to give a girl a ring for a fake engagement, it seems safer to do it in public.”
Disappointment is a sucker punch to the chest. This is a fake engagement. August is smart to remember that. I need to be too. With that in mind, I slide the ring on—perfect freaking fit!—and snap the box closed, stowing it in my bag.
“Well, there’s that done.” I reach out, my hand now weighing a thousand pounds, and take a sip of my coffee. Somehow I manage not to look at the gleaming ring on my finger—I’ll do that later—and pretend like it belongs there. Casual-like.
August, however, stares at my hand for a long moment, his expression flummoxed, like maybe he has regrets.
But he doesn’t reach out and snatch it back, only copies my movements and drinks his coffee.
Casual-like. “After breakfast, I’m meeting with my agent and the team head office to discuss ‘the plan.’ I’ll tell them I found my fiancée. ”
It should feel impersonal, like I’m nothing more than a body to fill a job. But it doesn’t stop the weird little thrill that zips through me. I struggle to keep my expression neutral as he continues.
“I’ll most likely announce the engagement during the presser at the away-game this weekend. I have one more away. The next home game will be on the fourth.” His gaze collides with mine, steady and just a bit concerned. “That’s when you start attending and publicly be my girl.”
Oh, hell. Awkward, shy heat invades my cheeks. A blush he clearly sees.
His tone becomes gentle. “Are you ready for this, Penelope?”
I can handle this. I can. “As I’ll ever be, August.”
August
“Just so we’re clear,” Coach Harper says evenly. “You’re engaged?”
I sit back in my seat with a nonchalant air, though inside I’m anything but; I keep seeing that ring on Pen’s finger, and it’s doing weird things to my mind.
But appearances matter here in my coach’s office where I’m meeting with the team.
“Team” being the highest up people who want to make sure I don’t do another drunken chicken dance and focus on winning for them.
The fact that I’m even here is degrading and surreal. I’m not a clown or a fuckup. Only I have been. So now I’ve got to present myself as a reformed man.
“I am,” I say. “To Penelope Morrow. She’s a childhood friend and we reconnected over the summer.”
“And you were so in love, you decided to party with a bunch of women all over the place at the same time?” Bud Lester, the GM, gives me a “get real” look. “Yeah, sure, that’ll work.”
“Okay.” I lift an idle hand for show. “So we tell them we had a breakup and it sent me over the edge, but now we’re back together.”
Nala, the team’s PR manager, taps a hot-pink nail against the bright blue binder with the team logo emblazoned over it resting in her lap.
I know my files are in there, containing everything I’ve probably done since birth.
“Could work. Heartbroken, you lashed out with a bit of reckless behavior, but now true love has healed all wounds.”
Inwardly, I roll my eyes and cringe. If anyone buys that . . .
“We can have you announce it at the post-game presser this Sunday,” she says, as expected.
“We’ll need a couple of good shots of the happy couple doing happy things,” her assistant, Troy, adds, furiously tapping away, his phone screen reflected in his gold cat-eye glasses.
Nala’s cool brown eyes pin me with a no-nonsense stare. “I’m assuming this is the girl you were eating with at the Santa Monica Pier?” She turns the binder to show a print of Pen and me smiling goofily at each other.
As I said, she’s got everything in that binder.
“It is.”
“She’s cute.” Troy studies his screen where he now has the picture up. “In a wholesome sort of way. A classic beauty.”
Personally, I think Pen’s fucking hot in an “I want to peel off her shirt every time I see her and press my face between the bounty that are her breasts” way.
But I’m not saying that here. And if anyone else says something like that, I’ll probably pop them one.
Which wouldn’t be good for my new tame image.
“It’s not the angle I was workshopping,” Nala muses, “but I think this might be better. Childhood sweethearts? What could be cuter?”
I’d said childhood friend, not sweetheart. I’m not even sure anyone who knew me or Pen throughout our childhood will believe that.
“Well . . .” I trail off, not wanting to stop her now that she seems to be going with my pick of Pen.
At my side, my agent, James Perry, crosses one leg over the other in a total Godfather move. “What we need to focus on here is that August’s behavior was an aberration that has passed. As we said before, August is, and always was, a levelheaded team player.”
“All appearances to the contrary this past summer,” Bud drawls, unimpressed.
Harper’s executive chair creaks as he leans forward and rests his linked hands on his desk.
“Look, Luck’s buckled down and is doing the work on the field and off.
He’s signed up for a bunch of charities .
. .” At this he glances at James and I for confirmation, to which we both duly nod, not bothering to mention I’ve always worked with charities.
“He’s got himself a sweet-faced fiancée and has stopped with the foolishness. As far as I’m concerned, he’s doing what we asked of him, now let’s focus on the important things. Like winning.”
Weathered blue eyes, deeply set under bushy gray brows stare me down. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. There is greatness in you. That’s why we signed you.”
Bud Lester nods in agreement but says nothing as Harper goes on.
“You’re the top pick in a competitive sport. That’s never going to be easy. But you’re more than ready to rise to the challenge.”
“Yes, Coach.”
He tips his chin. “Management and PR, they focus on image. That’s fine. They got their spin now. Let ’em at it. But you and me? We go to work to win.”
“Yes, Coach.” I’ve learned this is the best response to almost all interactions when being lectured by one.
“Integrity, work ethic, and focus. That’s what matter to me.”
“To me as well, Coach.”
With that, I’m free. Once in the parking lot, I blow out a breath and roll my neck. I feel sticky with my lie. Worse? I pulled Penelope into it.
Again come the images of her sliding on the ring. The way she looked at it the first time, shocked but then her eyes went soft and shining. Like she loved it, wanted it. Seeing that had been a kick to the gut.
It’s all wrong. But what can I do? It’s too late to end it.
“It’s all bullshit.” James unwraps a small mint gum and pops it into his mouth, chewing like it’s his mission in life.
Six foot one, deep brown skin, hair precision cut close and tight, with a gray bespoke suit probably worth twenty thousand, he’s intimidating to most. But I hired him because he’s honest, and I feel comfortable with him. And he’s a killer negotiator.
To that end, he glares back at the headquarters building we just left. “With the amount they paid for you, they should be licking your balls.”
I laugh shortly. “Shouldn’t that be the other way around?”
“Please. Number one never licks balls. You afford others the privilege—for a hefty fee.”
“How about we stop with all the ‘ball licking for profit’ talk?”
James chuckles and tucks his hands into his pockets as he chews his gum. I’m not sure if he’s an ex-smoker or just has an oral fixation—ball licking debate notwithstanding—but he’s never without something to chew on.
I once heard another agent call him Jaws because James will tear into an unprepared offer and leave a bloody trail. Fine by me.
“So . . .” James looks me over with those killer eyes. “You got yourself a fiancée.”
“Seems like it.” I put my hands low on my hips, absolutely refusing to pull at my collar. Even if it is like five thousand degrees outside.
“Childhood sweetheart, was it?” His eyes are now narrow slits of a predator stalking prey.
“Friends. Childhood friends.”
“I suppose congratulations are in order?”
I study the distant mountains. “A bottle of Pappy Van Winkle wouldn’t go unappreciated.”
He snorts eloquently. “That all?”
“I heard The Macallan 1926 is pretty good.”
“A two-and-a-half-million-dollar whiskey for getting engaged?” He tilts his head. “You know what? For you, I just might.”
We share a laugh, but then it fades and he’s back to giving me the hard stare.
“When do I get to meet the lady who is so special you up and proposed to her in the space of a month?” His snark is clear and biting, but I know it’s not directed at me.
While I might be the one who fucked up by acting like a fool, I’m the client and he’ll always be on my side against PR and management.
I also know it’s imperative that he and Pen do not meet. It would be a disaster for many reasons. And I do not want to play referee between them. I’d pick Pen and piss off James.
I turn toward my truck. “At the wedding.”
“The wedding!”
I enjoy his shock. “Yeah. We’ll be accepting gifts then too.”
“Asshole.”
Grinning, I wave him goodbye. But once inside the Grouch, my smile fades. I think of Pen wearing the ring and I break out in a cold sweat. Something few people really appreciate is how good actors quarterbacks are. We need to be. I’ll need to be an excellent one for the next few months.